


Brutal Beatings

by Eonneo



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Abuse, Begging, F/M, Forced Eye Contact, Humiliation, Physical Abuse, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, dishonorable Arthur, saliva
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 22:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17068364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eonneo/pseuds/Eonneo
Summary: It was three steps out of the barn, feet sinking slightly into the wet ground, that you felt the cold, metal barrel of a gun to your temple. You stopped, heart beginning to pound in your ears, breathing becoming uneven.“Thought you'd gotten away, didn't you?”Your eyes turned to slits, sneering.He pressed the gun just a bit further into your flesh.“You should've known better.”





	Brutal Beatings

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO. WHAT IS THIS, YOU MAY BE ASKING?  
> Okay. Interrogation Tactics was popular, but a lot of it I was writing for fans. No problem to me, I love pleasing you all, and am so happy to see how popular my work is with you wonderful, kinky people.  
> But what is this?  
> Well, this wild piece is a present to myself. It's like Interrogation Tactics, but more brutal. A meaner Arthur. It's all my biggest kinks into one brutal piece, and I wanted to share that with you. I felt I.T. Arthur was even too 'nice'. As such, it is technically not gender ambiguous, but M/F.  
> It has elements from Interrogation Tactics, but this is not related to that fic story wise.  
> It's wild, kinky, and full of abuse. AND I LOVE IT. It's my favourite fic so far I've done. It's HUGE.  
> AND I WANT YOU ALL TO ENJOY IT, TOO!  
> It's not meant to be original in comparison to my other works. Just...different. 
> 
> Disclaimer - I am in no way condoning abuse, but instead use writing fictional characters to help express it for those who may enjoy it.
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU KINKY BASTARDS, OR HAPPY WHATEVER YOU CELEBRATE. <3

Hidden in the stable, moon shining in through a hole in the ceiling. The area was scented with decayed wet wood and hay. Dark, uninviting and falling in on itself, it seemed the barn was the perfect place to hide.  
You listened to the outside world, holding your breath, heart beating softly.  
You heard the light trickle of rain and the whisper of the wind dancing through the barn's walls. No footsteps. Hopefully no danger, aside from the risk of the barn falling in on itself.  
There was no choice but to move, leave. This place was not safe, and in your heart you knew that. And so, you stood, quietly stepping over scrap and dirt, each step taking painfully long. As soon as you were at the doors, one of which barely held by its hinge, you would run for it. He was out there, looking for you as a hawk for a snake. And he had the hunting skills to back it up.  
At the door, you peaked out. Nothing but field, then the safety of trees. That was the goal. Trees. He couldn't follow you for too long in there. Not even him.  
It was three steps out of the barn, feet sinking slightly into the wet ground, that you felt the cold, metal barrel of a gun to your temple. You stopped, heart beginning to pound in your ears, breathing becoming uneven.  
“Thought you'd gotten away, didn't you?”  
Your eyes turned to slits, sneering.  
He pressed the gun just a bit further into your flesh.  
“You should've known better.”  
Slowly, you stepped to the side, turning to face him, placing the gun's barrel between your eyes.  
Arthur Morgan stood tall and steady, his face hard and weathered. He sneered slightly himself, but otherwise gave no hint of an emotion. He blinked, turning his head slightly to the side.  
“I thought you said you's innocent. Why you runnin' then?”  
“If your life were on the line, innocent or not, would you just sit around waitin'?” And it was true. You were innocent. Well, to a degree. But he didn't need to know the details. Arthur was just a ruthless bounty hunter looking for a quick cash and justification for his outlaw name.  
“Hm.” That's all he said. There seemed to be a pondering look on his face, if once could call it that. He held himself well, and you never truly knew what he felt.  
Then, his gun's butt hit your cheek. You fell back slightly, but the pain gave you a surge of adrenaline. You launched yourself at him, tackling him, bringing him down at the torso. He fell back, hitting the wet dirt with a thud, gun flying from his hand to be hidden in the grass. Fists moving, he fought, making contact with your cheek. You hit back, but he wasn't bothered by it, punching again.  
He calmed for just a second, long enough for you to hit him on the nose. It wasn't particularly hard, but he seized. It was your chance. You knew fighting him wouldn't end well for you, and so you hopped up, boots sliding over the ground. The trees began to near, but you jumped as a bullet flew past your head. Was he trying to hit you, or just scare you? Either way, you kept running, cheek throbbing with each step.  
Right at the edge of the clearing, you felt free. The smell of pine filled your senses. It was dense, thick, and the chance of safety. But it wasn't enough, wet footsteps closing in behind you. Panic set in, you ran quicker, nearly falling at times. Rain drifted into your eyes, and time seemed to slow, the drops hanging in the air as they fell from the dark sky.  
Arms at your sides, you toppled forward, Arthur landing on your back. In the fall, your arm twisted under you, pain shaking from it and striking up your shoulder. You screamed and thrashed, but Arthur's weight kept you down. Being on your stomach made it impossible to fight back.  
He pulled you back by your hair, bringing you to your knees to rest leaning in to his body. He held this position for but a moment, hitting your temple hard. It dazed you heavily, eyes darkening. His arm went around your neck. The sore arm was nearly useless, so you use d your other to reach back, clawing at his face. He didn't give, and soon, your vision went to nothingness.  
Blacked out, you had awareness of your body. It was wet. Cold. You were being carried, slumped over a shoulder. At times, your vision tried to fade in, but between your temple and neck, there wasn't much room to focus on anything but the pain.  
Time was not a concept you understood then. But it hadn't felt too long until you were sat upright, limbs tied. The arm still hurt, and even more so now that it was forced behind your back. A yell began to gurgle in your throat, but nothing came out.  
A slap, and somehow, you were back to your senses, albeit in a haze. Arthur stood in front of you, adjusting one of his black riding gloves presumably on the hand he just slapped you with. Cold eyes looked down at you in your restraints, offering a quick, curt laugh but no hint of happiness on his face.  
“You're gonna' talk.”  
“About what?” you slurred, but you knew why.  
“Why'd you kill those men in Ambarino? Who helped you?”  
“Ah, well,” you began, taking but a moment to see your surroundings. A dull, cold cabin, oil lamp beside Arthur to illuminate the two of you. “that's none of your goddamn business.”  
Backhanded, you inhaled sharply, gritting your teeth.  
“I think it is. Now talk!” he barked, slapping a third time. By now, your cheek tingled with pins and needles, throbbing under the force. He was a big man, built well, and you were learning that the hard way.  
His hand grabbed your chin, squeezing slightly, forcing your head up.  
“Who the Hell is behind this?”  
“Good question,” you replied. He let out a heavy breath, this time giving a close fisted punch. It didn't have much force behind it, but it knocked you good. He gave no chance for you to talk, his hand moving to hit your ribs.  
You let out a gasp and groaned, toppling over.  
“Then answer the goddamned question.”  
“Go to Hell,” you wheezed. Blood filled your mouth from a busted lip.  
His fingers worked into your hair, pulling your head back. The blood dripped down your chin and tasted bitter.  
A gun barrel back to your head.  
“Hell won't take me,” he hissed, cocking the gun's hammer. “Who. Sent. You?”  
Quiet. Then a small, choppy laugh forming in your throat. You grinned through the blood and pain, eyes half open.  
“Wouldn't you like to know?”  
The butt of the gun hit your cheek, sharp. You couldn't take much more, but you wouldn't give in to his interrogation. He may have been stronger physically, but you would win mentally.  
You heard his gun go back into his holster. He wasn't done yet.  
Head again back, fingers tangling into your hair. Arthur looked down upon you with utter disgust and contempt, face twisted into his ever prominent frown. The two of you simply stared at each other.  
“You're so pathetic,” he began. “Think you're tough. An outlaw. Gunslinger.”  
He leaned in, pulling your hair further.  
“But you ain't nothin',” he assured.  
“I ain't nothin, and yet here you are waistin' your time wit' me.”  
Arthur didn't reply with words. Instead he leaned in, lips meeting yours. This was a shock, but even more when his tongue worked its way into your mouth. In instinct, you bit it, and he recoiled back, rocking you in the chair. You gasped, looking at him with wide eyes.  
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” was all you could think to reply, confused.  
He didn't say anything, didn't even look like he cared what you said. There was no time given, Arthur backhanding you. In your daze, he moved in for another kiss, his tongue first sliding over the blood on your lips before it was back into your mouth. It was so disgusting that you didn't even retort this time.  
Saliva, thick, fell over your lips, laced with the taste of chewing tobacco. The texture was displeasing to you, alongside the movements of his tongue over yours.  
Finally, he stepped back, gasping for air, wiping at his mouth with his arms. You retreated at the saliva dressing your lips and chin.  
“I think my night just got a little more interesting,” he hissed.  
“What the fuck is wrong with you? No!” you spat again.  
“How are you gonna' stop me?”  
He paced back to you, sliding his fingers under your chin, looking your face over.  
And you weren't sure how to answer. Because you couldn't really stop him.  
“That's what I thought,” he trailed, fingers trailing up your cheek to your hair. Slowly, his fingers worked through the locks, as if teasing the pain that was to follow when he balled his hand into a fist, tight.  
“What a sad sight you are,” he hummed.  
He leaned over you, face just inches from yours.  
“Open your mouth.”  
You gave a sly grin.  
“Fuck you.”  
He showed no interest in your insult, instead his free hand lifted up to your neck. Slowly, he squeezed, a quick chirp of laughter from him as he saw the life begin to drain from your eyes.  
At the edge, he let go, and you gasped for air. In that moment, a sliver of saliva, glistened by the lamp, fell from the tip of his tongue into your mouth. Before you had a chance to spit, he held your chin.  
“Swallow it or I'll blow your goddamned brains out.”  
The texture – so prominent now – was sickening, but unsure of the truth in his statement, you simply obliged.  
“You're fuckin' sick. I can't wait to watch you die!”  
“And who's gonna' kill me?” he teased, stepping back.  
You opened your mouth, almost admitting your gang's involvement. Then stopped. He had almost tricked you, and suddenly, you worried if you _were_ smarter than him or not.  
Without speaking further, he picked you up from the chair, almost with too much ease, and carried you closer to the lamp. There was some sort of nail in the wall, and he placed your roped hands upon it. You were standing, but just barely.  
Once settled, he tossed his gloves aside on the table. Then, he pressed against you, hand working under your shirt, other holding you steady at your hair. You thrashed at his touch, only for him to retreat and backhand you. Dizzy, you stopped moving, and he went back against you. His hand felt rough, calloused on your skin, cupping your breast. At this, he urged his hips against yours, hard underneath them.  
“Looks like you're not totally useless,” he whispered, tongue working over your neck and jawline. His teeth sunk in for a quick, sharp bite, and you kicked at him for this. When your leg went out, it only hit him slightly, but he took the chance to grab under the knee, pulling it up to his hip and working his way in closer to you.  
“Keep fighting. You won't win,” he assured.  
“Just leave me alone!”  
“You ain't worth anything outside of this, so be quiet.”  
The hand holding up your leg moved up, giving a tight squeeze on your ass. Mouth to yours, he made a mess of spit on your lips between tongues.  
When satisfied with this, he stepped back and began pulling your boots off your feet. You tried to kick, but he slapped yet again. You weren't even sure you could feel your face anymore, he had done it so many times.  
“I'm sick of fightin' you.” He stepped away to a dark side of the cabin, shuffling for something. Coming back, you saw a small brown glass bottle in hand. Popping off the top, he took a few sips, then held it out to you.  
“Drink.”  
You obviously looked confused, as he moved to be closer, his hand becoming too comfortable with your neck. The bottle's neck was at your lips.  
“Drink the goddamn liquor.”  
Another attempt to kick him. His hand took your face, two fingers shoving into your mouth. You thought about biting him, but figured against it.  
“Drink, damnit!” He poured the bitter stuff into your now opened mouth, and you began to gurgle and cough. Finally, he stopped, stepping back. The bottle was filled with whiskey, now glistening on your chin and neck.  
He took another big drink, leaning in and kissing you, spitting the mouthful of it into your own mouth. He refused to move until his tongue no longer felt it.  
“That'll calm you down,” he breathed.  
As he waited for the effects to begin, he started struggling to get your boots off. At this point, your body was too weak to want to fight him anymore. He had hit one too many times, the pain a strong ache in your limbs and face.  
You couldn't even begin to figure what kind of man he was. Was this part of his attempt to break you? Did he expect answers? Or did he see and easy good time?  
The boots hit the floor with a thud, and soon, your pants followed. Your lower half was bared to him.  
Next, his knife was at your throat, quick. You gasped, panicked, scared. But he just gave a soft chuckle with no smile. The knife went down to your shirt, slicing away until he could rip the fabrics off your torso and arms, exposing you fully.  
Arthur stepped back, taking in your body. You closed your eyes, not wanting to face the reality of the situation. He must've taken this as a challenge, placing both his hands at either side of your head.  
“I want you to watch,” he hissed into your ear. Something seemed to take shape in his eye, as if a realization had hit him. Held tilting to your chest, he licked around your breasts, taking one in his mouth. You tensed, his spit wet and cold.  
Once done, he stepped back.  
And so, his hand caressed your cheek, following with a light slap. Then another. A backhand.  
“You want me to stop?”  
You didn't answer, squeezing your eyes.  
Another hit.  
“Then beg me, you pathetic wretch.”  
“No!”  
His hand uppercut your jaw, head hitting the wall with a thud.  
“Beg. I want to hear you beg me to stop. _By name._ ”  
“No,” you quietly said, teeth hurting from that one.  
Next, he choked, releasing enough to let you speak.  
“Goddamnit, beg, or I'll end your miserable life.”  
His face leaned in to yours, and he bit your lip, drawing blood. The sharp, sudden pain gave you an instinctual response.  
“ _Stop!_ ”  
“ _ **By. Name.**_ ”  
“ _Arthur, stop!_ ” It was too much pain. And you were willing to do anything to ease it.  
This pleased him, and he began to undo his belt. At this point, the alcohol was burning your thoughts, just barely. There was a fire in your throat from the coughing and liquid, and it made you sick.  
Once his belt was undone, he pushed up against you, arms holding both your legs up, his hands back to the wall. You weren't meant to be this flexible, hips stinging. No time to adjust, he gave a solid shove of his hips and was inside, dry friction.  
“Ah!” was all you replied.  
“Be quiet,” he said, hips beginning to work in a hard, rough rhythm. He moved slow, nearly taking himself out of you just to shove back, hard. Each thrust burned and you wanted to cry out, but knew it'd give him too much pleasure.  
“How's it feel?” he questioned between breaths, his face by yours.  
When you didn't reply, he met you in another sloppy kiss, giving a quiet moan between the two of you.  
He slowed further, head falling back in twisted ecstasy.  
“Stop,” you begged, head swimming from pain and drunkenness, legs stretched. There was nothing pleasurable about it. It was a misery you wanted to be free of, to be free of Arthur's cruel heart.  
He just sped up at your begging, but did his best to keep steady, taking his time with his pleasure.  
You felt his hands move to the bend of your knees, shoving your legs as back as they could go. Without care, you gave a quick yelp.  
“Hush up!” he demanded, spreading you far, hips hitting hard against yours. Slowly, he sped up with each movement, clenching his teeth and holding his head low. With one loud moan, his movements became sloppy and unpredictable, releasing himself.  
When finished, he kept your legs back and stayed inside of you, catching his breath.  
“Hardly good for that,” he panted, dropping your legs and removing himself.  
Pulling his pants back up, he took one last look over your body.  
“I don't care if you talk or not. I got what I wanted. You ain't worth much more.” His knife was in hand, and you almost began to beg for your life. But, instead of killing you, he cut your arms free, and you fell to the floor with a thump, a strong bolt of pain all in your body.  
Arthur Morgan said nothing more, finishing off the bottle of whiskey he had shoved into your mouth. With a toss, he left it by your side, existing the small building with a slam of the door.  
You wished you had just talked, maybe to avoid it all. This life was not worth what you had just experienced. None of it.  
With too much on your mind and too little energy for it, you curled up and questioned your fate.


End file.
